


After This, Therefore Because of This (The Post Hoc Fallacy)

by misbegotten



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - The West Wing Fusion, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, M/M, The West Wing References, X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 21:53:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: When seasoned reporter Erik Lehnsherr meets White House Press Secretary Charles Xavier, sparks fly. But can two people on opposite sides of the Press Room meet in the middle? Erik's libido says yes. Enthusiastically.





	After This, Therefore Because of This (The Post Hoc Fallacy)

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely out_there's fault, since she started the first bit based on my prompt. Or maybe this is just what happens when I rewatch season 1 of _The West Wing_ too many times in a row. But out_there made it phenomenally better with her contributions. All errors are, of course, my own.

"You're very English," Erik says. It's a stupid thing to say, yes, but it's the first time he's heard Charles Xavier away from the podium. Standing in the White House Press Room, there's barely a hint of Xavier's years of English education; in a downtown bar in the District, looking relaxed yet energetic, he's all Oxford vowels and crisp upper class consonants.

In Erik's defense, it's not the stupidest thing he's ever said, especially as a reporter. It takes a special kind of stupidity -- or insanity -- to grin when there are machine guns aimed at your chest and ask, "So, what are your complaints with the current government?"

Xavier smiles and says, "Thank you," as if it was a compliment. "It's Erik, isn't it? You're new to the Press Room?"

"Covering for Frost," Erik admits begrudgingly. While skiing, she'd managed to break an ankle and a wrist, and needed someone to cover her position here. Rather than let their editor, Shaw, send a local political reporter who might try to usurp her coveted job, she'd forced Erik to do it. Erik owed her a big favor. Big enough that he couldn't refuse, but after this they’re square. (What Emma Frost has on Shaw to arrange it at all must be enormous.) To be honest, Erik's more comfortable around AK-47s and landmines than House votes and rumored scandals. 

Xavier's lips twist into a slight frown, and Erik comes to the surprising realization that he doesn't care for that. He has no business thinking that Xavier's lips are an appealing shade of cherry, which no televised press briefing has properly caught. "Is Emma okay?" Xavier asks, oblivious to Erik's current fascination with his lips.

Erik waves a hand. "She'll be fine. A few broken bones. It won't keep her away for long."

Xavier's cherry lips relax back into a smile, and Erik feels something flush along his spine and settle hotly in his stomach. Which is ridiculous. Erik is a seasoned foreign correspondent, not a newbie to be awed by the (admittedly attractive) face of the White House. "What are you doing here?" he asks, trying to regain his footing. Ah yes, he has a drink in his hand. Time to sip it.

Xavier leans in conspiratorially. "Attempting to avoid a conversation elsewhere." He indicates, with a quick glance, to the senator's aide sitting two bar stools away. Erik tries to put a name to the face and fails -- why had he let Frost get him into this? -- but he knows that the senator in question is generally opposed to anything the President does.

"Ah," he says, and then sees that Xavier's glass is empty. "Then by all means, let me buy you a drink, Mr. Xavier, and pick your brain for a scoop."

Xavier looks amused. "You're welcome to try," he says warmly. "And please, call me Charles."

*

After an hour of discussion and a lengthy digression about a House appropriations bill, Erik is crawling out of his skin. Charles cheerfully talks about the White House as if it’s a bastion of sanity in an otherwise crazy world, which is ridiculous. Bastion of sanity, right. The residents of the West Wing (for they all seem to live there, as far as Erik has been able to tell from the fact that the White House staff are on call 24/7 for the President's whims) seem to think they're fighting the good fight from their sheltered little offices, when Erik has seen both good and bad at the end of a gun more often than not. 

Maybe Charles _is_ sheltered; his posh accent and expensive suit don't seem to deny it. But there's an unwavering hint of steel about him too. There's an intensity simmering beneath his outward appearance as an attractive political drone that warns Erik not to underestimate him. Even after several drinks, Charles is totally in control of himself and seems prepared to argue indefinitely about the importance of the minutiae of Congressional wranglings. He even, Erik suspects with amusement, is using small words to make sure Erik understands the importance of his points.

Erik doesn't need a tutorial in the US political landscape. He is, however, rather entranced by the man determined to teach him. "Can we go on the record?" Erik asks idly, for the last hour has been an enjoyable exercise but nothing he needs to print. There’s no harm in reminding Charles that Erik is an experienced reporter and not a political groupie to be embraced into the fold.

Charles blinks, his startling blue eyes focusing with laser-like precision on Erik's. "Certainly," he says. "I owe you that for listening to me ramble on."

"On the record, then," Erik says, tilting his glass so a sliver of ice melts into the amber liquid, "What do you do in your free time?"

That isn't the question that he meant to ask, but once it's out of his mouth Erik’s quite pleased with the smile that twitches across Charles' lips.

"What free time?" Charles parries.

"You must have a life," Erik counters. "At least, when you're not saving the free world with the power of your..." He waves a hand to take in the entire package that is the White House Press Secretary's easy air of amiability and charm. "...voice," Erik concludes, deciding that word encompasses a whole host of meanings. 

As the business face of the White House, Charles exudes capability and aplomb. Now, having spent time with him in an upscale bar and relaxed into several Scotches, Erik finds his thoughts drifting back to those lips and the soft way Charles' hair curls on his forehead.

Good god, he's smitten with the man. Frost is going to kill him.

"Chess," Charles says, surprising Erik. "I play chess. Do you play?"

Erik has carried a small magnetic chess set with him from assignment to assignment, sitting in tiny hangars and chaotic jungle camps playing against himself or anyone else he could find. "I do," he says modestly. And then, because he'd rather not end up propositioning Charles Xavier in public on his first week on the job, Erik pulls his brain out of the gutter. (He should not be wondering how Charles' lips might taste under his own.) "Maybe we can play a game sometime."

Charles quirks his cherry lips. "A game." It's a statement, not a question. "On the record, I can say that I would enjoy a game sometime." Charles puts down his glass and leans forward into Erik's space, which makes Erik wonder whether the man is a mind reader or just extremely good at picking up on nonverbal cues. "Off the record, I would enjoy a game sometime too." His hand brushes Erik's as he leans back, and then he's off the bar stool.

"I enjoyed our chat," Charles says thoughtfully, before he turns away. Erik hears an undercurrent of _something_ in Charles' tone, but he can't quite put a finger on it. "And welcome to the Press Room."

Frost, Erik decides, can not come back soon enough. Erik seems to be in dangerous waters.

*

Several weeks later, Charles is driving Erik crazy. Charles stands at his podium, fielding questions left and right with deft ease, and all Erik can think about is that his time in the White House Press Corps is almost at an end and he still hasn't maneuvered Charles into bed. He'd figured out quickly that no, the supremely capable Press Secretary has not fucked his way around the Press Room. Charles seems to hold every reporter in an enthralled (and clothed) suspense, even that asshole from the AP who appears to have a personal grudge against the entire White House staff. Charles dangles facts to the Corps like treats, and reporters leave briefings with a hint of a smile on their faces. He sidesteps criticism and redirects questions with a joke. Erik's met dictators who know how to use charisma and propaganda, but Charles makes it look effortless.

While Erik can appreciate the political skill there, he'd be lying if he said his interest was purely professional. He's spent more than one briefing watching Charles, imagining pulling the tie loose and pushing his white shirt off his shoulders. He usually stops himself before he imagines unbuckling Charles’ belt. Usually.

While he's not immune to Charles’ charms, Erik doesn't let it stop him from publishing a sharply critical piece on the President's policies towards certain Latin American countries. After it prints, Erik turns up at the next briefing expecting the light in Charles' eye to dim somewhat. There's no change, however. Charles merely turns up the wattage on his beatific smile and distracts the room, feeding them tidbits about upcoming maneuvers in the Middle East.

They've been playing chess, in a way. More honestly, Charles has been seducing him through chess.

It started as a murmured comment as Charles passed Erik outside the Press Room. "King's pawn to E4," Charles had said to Erik as his assistant handed out an itinerary for an upcoming State visit. Erik, startled, had quickly countered via email, leading Charles easily into the Sicilian defense; there was no point in holding back once he'd been challenged, even if he'd rather be wrestling Charles into mussed sheets than across an imaginary chess board.

The games via email and in the halls outside the Press Room have continued. And though Erik is chafing at being stuck in DC when he'd rather be on the front lines, he's rueing the fact that Emma's bones are healing and she wants her job back.

"I can handle it for a few more weeks," Erik offers lamely, feeling like nine kinds of idiot. 

Frost, who has gotten quite good at typing one-handed, shoots him a calculating look. "I thought you'd be looking forward to hopping the next flight out of here."

Erik opens his mouth and then closes it without comment.

Frost's well-manicured eyebrows reach for the sky. "What's going on, Lehnsherr?"

Erik folds his arms. "Maybe I'm tired of the peripatetic lifestyle," he tries. From a man who has lived out of a carry-on bag for months, this is hardly convincing.

"You're growing roots?" Frost asks skeptically. Then she smiles, something clicking into place in her devious, perceptive mind. "Or is there someone you don't want to leave yet?"

Erik glares at her. “No comment.”

Frost shakes her head. "Grumpy Erik, in touch with his feelings. I hope whoever it is knows what he's getting into."

Erik doesn't bother to deign that with a reply.

*

Erik is not "hanging around" the Press Room. He's working. On a very important article. Right.

Charles comes by with Armando Muñoz in tow, arguing quietly. "You're not moving the Press Room across the street!" Charles insists. They both stop when they see Erik. Charles shoots him a look, half demanding and half appealing for support. But... "You didn't hear that," he says to Erik. He cuffs Muñoz on the shoulder, to which Muñoz mutters something about physical abuse before wandering off, and then faces Erik.

"Seriously," he says. "You didn't hear that."

"I didn't hear that," Erik agrees easily. The location of the Press Room is hardly newsworthy. At best, it would be opinion piece gossip and Erik has no interest in that sort of article. "Do you want a drink?" 

It's as good as any non sequitur, and is better than "Can I peel your suit off with my teeth?" At least not here, perilously close to the Oval Office. Erik is usually better at controlling himself, even if life has taught him over and over that chances are meant to be taken; waiting around for something good to happen is fruitless.

Charles smiles, the edges soft with exhaustion. The White House staff have been running at full steam for too many days, as far as Erik can tell, and they rarely get a break. "Follow me to my office," Charles says. "I'll squeeze you in." That sounds vaguely obscene, and Erik likes the notion.

He follows with alacrity. There's no news that needs to go to print tonight. And maybe he'll get one step closer to Operation: Seduce Charles, even if it's only via a quick drink and a chess discussion.

"Angel," Charles says to his assistant as he lets Erik through the door first. "No calls, okay?"

Angel smiles at Erik -- she knows all the Press, even the temporary substitutes, but particularly seems to know who are Charles' favorites -- and gives them a thumbs-up.

To Erik's surprise, Charles shuts the door behind them. The blinds are already closed. They're in Charles' office, without supervision. And no drinks in sight. "Maybe we can go to a bar--" Erik starts, but Charles screws his fingers into Erik's shirt and drags him in for a kiss.

It's really quite good, as first kisses go. It's deep and a little dirty, and Erik is all in favor of more. He hears a sound like a gasp, and can't tell whether it's coming from Charles or himself. Then he realizes he's got his hands beneath Charles' suit coat, tracing the line of Charles' back with his thumbs, wanting to creep up to his shoulders and strip off the damned coat. And all the rest of Charles' clothes.

Charles pulls back enough for them to breathe. "You don't have any idea how long I've wanted to do that," he says, sounding slightly guilty.

"How long?" Erik manages, leaning forward to run his tongue across Charles' bottom lip.

Charles segues into another kiss readily, and it takes a few minutes before either of them can catch their breath. "Since I first saw you."

At least Erik's instincts aren't as rusty as he feared. His instant attraction to Charles had been reciprocated. It's a gratifying feeling. But gratitude can take a hike when there's lust on the table, and he wants nothing more than to sink into Charles. 

Charles, however, seems able to remember that they're very few feet from the rest of the world. "We can't do this," he says, somewhat mournfully. "Not here, not now, and definitely not when you're still working in the White House."

"Three more days," Erik says fervently, because that's when Frost has vowed to take back her spot.

"I heard," Charles growls, and the sound goes straight to Erik's cock. Like it needs any more help.

"Three more days," Erik continues, "and I'm yours."

"Until the next assignment comes through," Charles says pointedly and oh, he has been paying attention. Erik is not going to stick around DC. This -- the two of them breathing each other's air and pressing all the hard, sticky bits of themselves together like there's nothing else that matters -- isn't going to be more than a passing thing.

Charles doesn't seem like the type to do passing things. But what does Erik know? He's been in a lust-induced fog since he met Charles. He's been seriously doubting his own dedication to the craft. To the craft of _finding out secrets and publishing them_. Which is hardly amenable to Charles' line of work.

It's no secret between them that right now Erik wants Charles to climb him like a tree.

There's a very quiet knock on the door. "Ahem," Angel says from the other side. "Charles, the Chief of Staff is asking for you."

"Bloody hell," Charles mutters, as English as Erik has ever heard him sound. He wants to lick Charles' accent like a spoon.

Okay, maybe his metaphors need some work. It's hard to think when his brain has pooled somewhat south of his belt.

"I'll be right there," Charles answers easily, as though their chests aren't heaving like they've been running a marathon while standing still. He lets go of Erik and steps back, visibly pulling himself together.

Erik wants to curse. Instead, he wills his erection to go down. It's not cooperating.

Charles gives him an amused look and, when Erik nods his head, opens the door.

"Three days," Charles says. Like it's a promise.

*

It's two days before it all goes to hell.

Erik's editor gives him an assignment -- like pronto, Shaw demands, and pushes Frost back into her chair early -- that Erik get to Columbia to cover an assassination attempt on a high government official. Erik is still getting details as he rides to the airport, and he thinks a little wistfully about the day's press briefing, which was supposed to cover an Easter Egg hunt on the White House lawn. An assignment that would once have made Erik tear out his hair. That was before he knew the bright blue of Charles’ eyes, the inviting twinkle when he talks about kids visiting the White House. 

Erik has been thoroughly cockblocked, he thinks as he checks for his passport. It sucks.

*

It's another four weeks before he gets back to the United States, and in between filing reports from far-flung locales he's been emailing Charles. Their digital chess game has devolved into rude innuendo. Erik wonders which government agency peon is monitoring the White House email, and if he or she is enjoying their discussion.

Erik isn't sure what to expect from Charles, to be honest. Their "relationship", as it is, has consisted of some flirting, several weeks of just being in the same room together multiple times a day, and a really, really good kiss. What is Charles expecting, other than an eventual fuck? (Because Erik knows he's a really good fuck. He's not vain, but he can provide references.)

But Charles seems to be in it for more than just that. As their emails grow longer and about more than just chess or thinly-veiled sexual promises, Erik discovers things about Charles' life outside the White House. Like he has a sister, Raven, who is apparently bent on taking over the world.

"Have you notified the FBI?" Erik emailed.

"It's more of a CIA problem," Charles teased back. 

Erik is also learning where Charles turns into a brick wall. The rest of his family is off-limits, Erik quickly learns from pointed silences in response to questions. But Erik finds himself sharing details about his own life, from his parents (long dead, but not forgotten) to his half-assed religious observance. He's Jewish when it suits him, and Charles makes a joke about a _chuppah_ , which ought to send Erik screaming for the hills. He's never been serious about a guy before, much less one that he hasn't slept with yet.

What if they're incompatible, in or out of bed? What if the spark between them fizzles out by the time they’re in the same room again? These are the doubts that niggle at him as he sits on a camp bed halfway across the world from DC. In lieu of answers, he takes his frustration out on every mosquito that buzzes across his tent.

Well, Erik's not signing up for marriage quite yet. But Charles makes him think about such things, which is ridiculous. Somewhere along the way Operation: Seduce Charles turned into something… unexpected.

And now he's landing in Washington-Dulles for no reason other than he's been cut loose between assignments and it's where Charles is. And Charles is meeting him at the gate, or as close as airport security will allow him to be.

"I could have taken a cab," Erik says as he makes his way out of the crowd and into Charles' arms.

"I had a break," Charles lies cheerfully. Erik knows his schedule barely allows time for meals, much less crawling in traffic to the airport. Still, Charles kisses him briefly before they head to parking, the promise of much more in his eyes.

"Where are we going?" Erik asks as they settle in Charles' car. "I can get a hotel."

"You'll stay at my place," Charles says, as if they'd already settled on that. Maybe Erik had hinted that he'd be amenable, but this is the first time Charles has stated it outright. "I won't be there much," Charles adds.

Erik finds his stomach sinking. "Oh," he says, the imagined foray into sexual delights shrinking to a car ride and a kiss. If Charles can only escape for a few hours, Erik would have gotten a cab and used those hours in bed. Preferably naked, but he's willing to compromise. Compromise has never been Erik's strong suit, but Charles makes him want to try it.

"I mean," Charles says apologetically, looking at him almost shyly before he pulls into traffic, "I _could_ be there. I'd need to rearrange some things."

"Rearrange, then.”

"Okay," Charles says. And they're both quiet for a moment before Erik launches into a semi-rehearsed tale of his travels.

The car ride is both too long and too short, Erik thinks as it draws to a close. He's got a knot of anticipation in his head and a hard-on just thinking about the fact that he's going to be sleeping in Charles' bed tonight.

And then Charles' phone lights up as they're pulling into a parking spot.

"Dammit," Charles says, peering at the text. "I have to go into work."

"Anything I should know about?" Erik teases. He's not very good at teasing -- he hasn't had a lot of practice -- but Charles takes it as the light deflection of disappointment that Erik intended.

"Nothing newsworthy. But I'll be late." He presses his keys into Erik's hand, and waits for Erik to grab his bag before dropping a kiss on Erik's lips. "I'll give you a call if it's too late to wait up."

"I'll wait up," Erik promises rashly.

He remembers his promise sometime later as he succumbs to jetlag and the enticement of Charles' really good sheets. He's barely had time to poke through Charles' belongings before the temptation of the bed draws him in.

He sleeps.

*

He wakes from the remnants of a dream to his solid erection digging into the side of the bare hip next to him. Charles has crawled into bed with him, and Erik didn't so much as wake up. So much for Erik's finely-honed survival skills. Or maybe it's just a reflection of how much he trusts Charles. But more likely it's how tired he was.

Wait, Charles, is naked in the bed next to him. Erik's brain nearly short circuits.

He limps out of bed, carefully untangling his limbs from Charles', so he can go to the bathroom. It takes a few minutes before he can avoid aiming for the ceiling. While he's there, he brushes his teeth. Minty fresh breath, suitable for waking up Charles.

Who looks more beautiful in bed than he does out of it. Fuck it, he's sex on a stick. He's tousled hair and red lips and the slightest bit of drool, which does nothing to put Erik off, and

\--Oh, he's waking.

"'rik?" Charles mumbles, curling into himself a little but reaching out with one hand. To the empty bed.

Erik sees the disappointment flash on Charles' face, then Erik is pulling back the blankets and inserting himself firmly into Charles' embrace. "Hey," he says. Master of the English tongue, he is.

"Hey," Charles breathes back, that smile curling at his lips. It's a decadent smile, one that promises all sorts of delights. "I left you a message."

"Sorry," Erik feels his brain starting to churn, a steady stream of _fuckit'sCharlesfuckit'sCharlesfuckCharlesnow_ playing in his head. "I fell asleep."

Charles wipes a hand across his face, apparently trying to wake himself up enough to engage in lively debate, and Erik thinks that if they start talking now they'll never stop. So he kisses Charles.

Kissing Charles is like... well, his first thought is like eating ice cream: soft, sweet, and full of surprises. Charles is dismantling his ability to use metaphors, Erik thinks ruefully, but before he can summon a better one their mouths are tangled together again.

Charles kisses like a champion, his teeth bared into a hungry smile and obviously ready to do battle. Erik keeps up his end, running his tongue somewhere in the vicinity of Charles' tonsils and gasping for breath. Okay, maybe Charles has him beat in the kissing department. But Erik is not above playing dirty.

His hands are moving while Charles has his own hooked around Erik's shoulders, and Erik tickles Charles' erection. It's not a subtle thing, that moment when Charles' cock goes from "Oh, is it play time?" to full on attention to every caress that Erik makes. Erik cups him greedily, running his hand along Charles' length, sucking the resulting startled gasp from Charles' mouth, and Erik thinks that maybe he has the upper hand after all. Or some such thing, because Charles has shifted to frozen like a deer in headlights, a whine coming from his throat as Erik smoothes his thumb over the head of Charles' erection.

"Jesus," Charles finally manages, finding a few words. "Your _hands_."

Erik feels unreasonably proud of himself.

He continues his tender assault on Charles by placing a row of kisses down his throat to his shoulder, careful not to leave any marks on the face of the White House. (The thought of Charles having to wear turtlenecks makes him want to laugh out loud, but Charles probably wouldn't enjoy the joke as much as he does.) When he gets to Charles' chest, though, he sucks noisily above Charles' right nipple and Charles flails a little. He finds the thought of leaving his claim on Charles incredibly hot.

"Sorry," Charles says as he brushes against Erik's own cock, then laughs. "I don't know what I'm apologizing for," he says helplessly.

"Do try to keep up, Charles," Erik says like a tutor lecturing a particularly recalcitrant student, and Charles gets a kind of fire in his eyes at the challenge.

Fuck, Charles is equally good with his hands.

Erik thinks dimly thought he ought to be taking notes as to what Charles is doing with his arms and legs, the way he sort of drapes himself around Erik with his body to embrace him completely and thoroughly within a Charles-like force field. Charles is _everywhere_ now, doing everything, and Erik is half tempted to declare a truce and just beg Charles to suck his cock. Erik's started kissing Charles relentlessly, with more enthusiasm than skill, because Charles is wiping his brain of coherent thought with every move he makes.

Slowly Erik starts to regain some of his faculties -- damn, he's never been like this with another partner -- and manages to gather Charles' wrists. "Can I fuck you?" Erik asks, like the fate of the Western world depends on Charles' answer.

"Oh, _yes_ ," Charles says, clearly delighted. "There's lube and condoms right--"

He loses his train of thought as Erik begins to work him open with a finger.

Frankly, it all goes a little hazy from there. There is frantic kissing and definitely sucking and possibly some passionate words. At some point Erik thinks clearly, as he's buried up to the hilt in Charles, that he never wants to be any place else on Earth. Sex with anyone else is going to be a real letdown.

_Maybe no one else is good enough_ , Erik's hindbrain supplies as he comes so hard that his vision whites out.

The next thing he remembers, after getting rid of the damned condom, is Charles' cherry red lips kissing him gently on the forehead. "Get some sleep," Charles suggests, and it's like a command.

Erik sleeps again. If this is a dream, it's the best he's ever had.

*

When he wakes again, Charles is gone. But there's a note on the pillow next to him.

"Don't go anywhere," it suggests in Charles' best penmanship. "I'll be back soon." And, as a postscript. "You really are perfect."

Erik is well and truly fucked if he thinks he's not going to be seeing a lot of Washington DC in the future.

*

_Many Months Later_

"Honey, I'm home!" Erik calls as he throws his carry-on luggage down in the hallway.

There's an answer, something like a trill of delight that is far too giddy to have come from the throat of the unflappable White House Press Secretary. Charles appears in the door of the living room and tosses what looks to be a very serious briefing book towards the couch.

"Thank god," he says. "I was beginning to think that you were never coming back."

Which is patently ridiculous, since Erik has spent every free moment that he's in the United States in Charles' presence. Since Erik always leaves with promises to come back, with plans of when he'll return, and he keeps them. Even if he has to threaten Shaw with personal violence and withholding stories to make the promises comes true.

But he really can't complain when Charles throws his arms around him and kisses Erik like he's been gone for years. And to think, Erik had worried that they'd be incompatible.

"Guess what I got?" Erik asks when Charles pulls back. He doesn't go far.

"More candy from the airport?" Charles ventures, slipping his hands suggestively beneath Erik's jacket.

"Better," Erik guarantees him. He extends the printout he's been carrying for three thousand miles to his (he freely admits) better half. "A two-book contract."

Charles gives him a serious look. They've talked about this, but having the deal in hand is something else entirely. "And you're okay with that? Not crawling through jungles or staring down machine guns with only your winning charm and a pencil?"

Erik kisses him, letting him know there's no doubt in his mind that taking a break from reporting is what he wants. For a time. "It’ll suit me until you get a job as something other than Press Secretary.”

“Any suggestions?” Charles asks coyly. He drags fingers over the side seam of Erik's shirt, a tease that's almost ticklish and far more distracting than it should be.

“Lion tamer,” Erik says, thinking of the way Charles can control a pack of hungry journalists without losing his engaging (beautiful, hypnotic) smile. “You have the skills.”

“I'm allergic to cats.”

“Promotion to Chief of Staff?”

“That's not how it works,” Charles chides him. He tries to look incredulous but the amused glint in his eye ruins it. “You should know that. You were in my Press Room.”

“Mostly to ogle you,” Erik replies, tugging Charles towards the bedroom. “But that wouldn't solve the conflict of interest if I was a reporter here.” It doesn't solve the bigger problem: the fact that knowing Charles is in DC makes Erik begrudge being on the other side of the world. 

He doesn't know how he's going to to fix that, but the President’s halfway through his term, so Erik's got two years to figure it out. Six if re-election is on the table. Plenty of time to write a couple of books and think of a working compromise that will keep him and Charles on the same continent. Plus, it gives Erik time to figure out a few other things. Like what's the best way to propose without a ridiculous engagement ring. To make sure Raven is on board with adding Erik to the family. And to decide whether he actually wants a _chuppah_ when they get married. 

Charles derails these thoughts as he starts stripping off Erik's clothes, and even after hours of travel and the fact that he desperately needs a shower, Erik is more than happy to comply. This thing between them is better than a cynic like him ever thought possible. It's closer to happily ever after than Erik ever thought he'd get. He'll take it.

"Come to bed," Charles murmurs, working at his own clothes. 

And, really, how is Erik to argue with that?


End file.
